


good morning, fire eater (or: the one where he calls you kindness and you put a gun to his head)

by mydarlinglime



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Author Is A Trash Monster, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Church Sex, Demons, F/M, Guns, JUST, Knives, M/M, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Dean, Top Sam, Wincest - Freeform, but so is the poem, dark themes, don't expect fluff and happiness becos there is none, heavily inspired by richard siken's poetry, im going to hell, it switches a lot im not even sure how many times, slight mentions of bloodplay, this is all ridiculously vague, this is rlly dark and scary and vaguely serial killer-esque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:16:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydarlinglime/pseuds/mydarlinglime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the ghosts tell you, <br/>you are not your father's weapon, you are not your mother's angel. <br/>there is no room here for kindness. <br/>clean up the blood, boy. </p><p>[a dean and sam winchester character study]</p>
            </blockquote>





	good morning, fire eater (or: the one where he calls you kindness and you put a gun to his head)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost of an earlier work that i edited the hell out of because i was unhappy with it, but here it is all new and improved!! 
> 
> this is not set at any particular time becos fuck timelines that's why. 
> 
> this was also inspired very heavily by richard siken's poetry (as is all my writing), specifically the poems road song and little beast, which you should all go read if you haven't yet. richard is unbelievably brilliant and my favourite writer ever in the whole world and everything he writes gives me spn/wincest vibes so. 
> 
> on that note, enjoy, kiddos!!

1\. _put the gun down,_ he says, _darling, put it away._  
_no,_ you say, _really._ barrel pressed  
against your lips.  
_it's alright. just like this. i’ve been holding guns my whole life._  
getting shot is messy.  
the blood never comes out.  
your brother used to sew you up,  
but lately you’ve just been  
sticking your fingers in the holes  
to make them bigger. 

2\. (when you were young  
you met death and he showed you the ocean,  
your little brother dead  
on the pavement, an empty bed.  
this is the morgue where they cut your mother  
open, this  
is the backseat of your father’s car,  
this is a record collection of suicidal thoughts and bar fights—  
a sign saying TURN BACK NOW,  
but everybody knows you won’t.  
and death said,  
_dance the dead waltz with me,  
darling, dance until you feel nothing at all.  
_ there was an empty  
crypt in your head when the reaper sent you  
home.)

3\. when that boy moves,  
those hips like hunting knives,  
your spine wants for the beetles in hisblood.  
give him shotgun shells,  
a mouth full of teeth,  
love on a rusty fire escape, this isn’t how the story  
is supposed to go.  
you carve suicide into his  
skin with a broken bottle and you  
don’t take your finger  
off the trigger when he kisses you. 

4\. this is a prophecy bookmarked;  
dog-eared,  
this is god telling you,  
_stop taking my book so fucking seriously.  
_ this is his hand around your throat, squeezing, this is you  
telling him—  
_welcome home, darling, i’ve been waiting here for longer than you know._

5\. you were in junior high and there was that motel room in  
some sleepy town,  
the one with the awful wallpaper he’d tried to  
peel away with hispocket knife.  
ugly walls, ugly hearts,  
ugly brother secrets that  
nobody wants to tell.  
kiss him in the dark because  
nobody wants to see that  
either  
the first time was an accident, you swear;  
a stupid mistake,  
he was drunk and you were drunk and  
there were cheerleaders at the party.  
you were playing seven minutes in heaven  
and they all said to  
kiss him,  
so you did.  
he didn’t talk to you for two weeks and  
when he did  
he punched you so hard your tooth went  
straight through your lip.  
he sewed it up and  
sobbed _sorry’s_ into your shoulder and then he kissed you again  
and it  
pulled the stitches  
right back out.

6\. admit it,  
if he had wings you would  
rip them off and sew them to your own shoulders instead.  
greedy graveyard boy,  
dirt under his fingernails and war in his heart,  
this time last week he was telling you about a  
girl in kentucky, how he’d  
_fucked her brains out  
_ but he always fucks you with your brains in, arms in,  
legs in,  
ankles crossed like you’re still  
fourteen and a virgin,  
pink in the middle like dime store candy  
he only fucks you with your brains in and you wonder  
what that means.  
well, i'll tell you what it means:  
it means that you have lots of time to think about him and hunger  
and how he only loves you when he’s dying  
or when he owes someone money, when you dare him to  
say i love you and he whispers,  
_nobody likes a liar,  
darling._

7\. you remember the nights that he bent himself  
over backwards until  
his spine broke. you remember pouring  
whiskey into his wounds,  
his schizotypal judas dopey grin,  
death on a  
queen size bed  
you remember wanting to be inside his blood. 

8\. home is inside of him when he is inside of you.  
home is not these rotting walls,  
it is not a gun,  
although you want it to be  
home—  
is the velvet inside of tongue and teeth,  
is this love pinned up,  
nailed down,  
crucified. 

9\. he pushes you against the door, but doesn’t kiss you.  
he leaves you with a pack of cards and a  
pack of matches.  
pick one.  
you could play solitaire or you could  
burn this whole city down.

10\. you want to pull the door off its  
hinges and leave it  
splintered in the yard outside.  
you want the splinters in your skin.  
you want his fingernails there, too.  
you smoke an entire pack of cigarettes,  
find yourself winding him up just so he shoves you away.  
it occurs to you that you are self-destructive. 

11\. you know, this ends with you dead,  
him dead,  
both of you dead  
lying next to each other under  
blood halos,  
ribs like opera balconies, open  
and terrible—  
this ends bloody,  
see, this  
ends with an empty apartment,  
shutters closed and  
no one home, rotting  
food  
in the fridge,  
his car keys on the table,  
dust  
everywhere—  
see, this  
has nothing to do with happiness. 

12\. you've run out of gas and there is nothing but cornfields.  
you swear and kick the dirty ground.  
he sits on the hood of your  
precious car while you open the trunk and count your precious guns.  
and he almost looks—  
in this light—  
like he could be precious too. 

13.maybe it's supposed to end here, but thirteen is a damned unlucky number.

14\. you dream that you and your brother are  
chained together at the ankle.  
that god is drunk on wine and he’s singing  
billie holiday  
that all you can smell is burning flesh,  
you dream that you have monsters that are  
too big to fitunder your bed, but  
that’s not a dream, now is it?

15. someday you’re going to steer this car across america and  
straight into the pacific.

16\. your car is not yours  
and neither is the gun in your hand  
and neither  
are the voices in your head.  
sometimes they say _hello_ ,  
sometimes they say,  
_pick up that gun, sweet boy,  
pick it up, cock it back—  
_ bang  
bang  
bang,  
_there. just like dancing._

17\. you take a blunt instrument to the cave of your chest,  
carve your heart out and pin it to the motel wall  
with your throwing knife.  
you do this to all of the people you love  
because you are a killer and  
heartbeats are the sick lullaby you need to sleep.  
because you are a killer  
and you like the taste of blood.  
because you are a killer,  
but he is  
too.

18\. the ghosts tell you,  
_you are not your father's weapon.  
you are not your mother's angel.  
there is no room here for  
kindness.  
clean up the blood, boy. _

19\. there's nothing in this room but ababy cradle andit’s on fire.  
you wait by the door for hours, but it never burns. 

20\. see,  
sunday came  
and went  
and still nobody’s praying.

21\. but wait. this time there’s  
there's a boy.  
a boy in a car in the dark on a highway in kansas  
and you think he might be yours, but you can't be sure.  
you're driving and he's got your fingers in his mouth  
and his eyes can't decide if they're blue or green or  
everything other than that.  
there is the smell of winter in his bones,  
pale trees,  
frightening hollow faces;  
if you had the time you might be afraid,  
but he is in your way; hair bitten by wind, cheeks stained red.  
and you only have  
ten minutes before the dogs catch  
up to you. 

22\. he looks like a fucking victory march.  
or maybe he looks like a disaster. 

23\. a litany of bible verses is on your tongue,  
and you're about to say something about the  
army of god, that sweet chariot  
garrison of blood and light, but they’re all dead,  
aren’t they?  
dead from the moment they  
pulled you from the pit and  
hung you high,  
sang hosannas in the footsteps  
of a man who was never holy;  
at least not holy in an  
ancient stone, biblical tapestry, david-and-goliath  
kind of way,  
not in the way the angels wanted you to be. 

24\. he tells you that there is no god in this car,  
in kansas.  
or in all of america, for that matter.  
he tucks your fingers into the roof of his mouth.  
your vision does  
fuzzy things at theedges.  
the car swerves.  
he says, _god has moreimportant things to do  
than stop you from making mistakes with tragic, dying boys.  
_ he bites down and your fingers come back bloody.  
someone once told you that  
red darkness is much darker than black darkness;  
and so the blood on your fingers could be red darkness,  
it could also benothing but your blood.  
he sunk his teeth into you.  
let's not make this poetic. 

25\. _really, sweetheart, it’s too late for that._

26\. boys with guns in their pockets are poetic  
the same way that a crime scene is poetic.  
it's only after you're both dead  
that you realize something is terribly terribly wrong.

27\. he finds the gun under your pillow and he leaves it there.  
if you want to put it to your  
head he knows you will, bullets or not.  
he has given you many  
death instruments over the years  
daggers and demons,fire and fist,  
but you will alwayscome back to yourgun  
it’s easy:  
like loving him,  
like fucking him,  
all you have to do is pull the trigger.

28\. there is a boy in a church who wants to be saved.  
the church doesn't want to save him.  
this is your boy—  
although you would never admit to wanting him like that.  
you push him hardagainst the stained glass and his skin  
refracts the light like a glass prism does.  
you want to confess allyour sins to this boy,  
kneel and  
pray and  
spill them at his feet,  
you want to suck him off in the confession booth,  
sing hymns into his naval.  
you want to burn all these  
goddamn prayer books. 

29\. you swallowed god when  
you swallowed your mothers rosary  
at the age of four. you used to suck on it  
because the bone carved cross fit  
perfectly  
into the niches of  
your tiny, tiny mouth. 

30\. _oh, little soldier,  
there isn't a holy inch inside of you._

31\. you listen to your monsters,  
thatanimal trying to get  
out from under your skin,  
your legs buckle. drop.  
the floor is not forgiving.  
once you drank  
three bottles of whiskey  
and puked up your guts  
and he still kissed you like you deserved it.

32\. _amen,  
_ he kisses you down.  
_amen,_ says your  
smalltown, carhood heart.  
_amen, amen, amen,_  
the rhythm ofhis fingers, his tongue.  
you look up at the ceiling and  
wonder why every ceiling isn't this beautiful. 

33\. when he pulls you both together  
you gasp out  
OH, GOD,  
and  
all the angels in heaven turn their eyes away. 

34\. _you are my god,_ you tell him with a  
dopey dreary bible bloody smile,  
_now give me back my gun._

**Author's Note:**

> comments fuel me, feed the starving author pls <3


End file.
